The Sock Drawer
by Zylstra
Summary: He'd forgotten what he'd buried in there. Sam/Jack. AU.
1. Jack

Hi guys. It's just me and another on of my soppy Sam/Jack fics again. n.n; This one's an AU, and it's not very happy. No character deaths, or implied character deaths, though. Inspired by Whatsername - Green Day.

The Sock Draw

I haven't spoken to her in years. Sometimes, I'll be searching my sock draw for an elusive half-pair of socks and I'll find the photo of her I stashed there, hoping that I'd never see it again; that I might forget the memories that taunt me with what could have been. Yet, if I wanted to forget, why then would I find myself staring at it for countless minutes?

It shouldn't have been that way. We'd been friends. We should have kept in contact. We did, for a while there. But I could feel the distance between conversations and meet ups slowly increasing, until suddenly they were non-existent. I'd like to blame it on the fact that she was in Nevada and I was in Washington with a fair few states in between, but that shouldn't have meant anything between friends. It's at these times when I'm still almost buried in my sock draw that I wonder if I should give her a call and see how she's doing.

I've never before found the courage to even pick up the phone in anticipation of calling her, before today. Maybe it was the rain that made me wonder if she was feeling as lonely as I was. Maybe it was the fact that if felt as if even my _Simpsons_ boxsets were glaring at me to call her, to see what she's done with her life and see if she's interested to know what I've done with mine.

At that point, depending on what she said, I'll either lie or tell the truth. I'll call expecting the worst: I have these nightmares in which I call her, and she picks up the phone and says "I've got a husband and two kids." And then, I deliver my well-rehearsed line that portrays similar meaning.

Hopefully, by chance that she does say that, any spur of the moment emotions won't come through when – _if_, I remind myself – I need to make up something. But maybe she won't smash a worst case scenario pie in my face. Who knows? Maybe she'll reply with the same honest-to-goodness truth I'll be giving her.

"I'm still doing the same old paper-pushing and I haven't moved on."

I look at my watch. With the different time zones, it'll be right after dinner on her end. I pick up the phone and request a number for Samantha Carter, pushing aside thoughts that considered the fact that her name might not even be that anymore. I scribble the number I'm given down quickly and before I can have anymore doubts, I punch the numbers into the keypad.

It's ringing.

Oh God. This sound is more haunting than the floorboards creaking eerily in the middle of a storm, or the sudden slamming of a door on a cold, empty night. It clicks as somebody answers.

"Hello?" It's a man's voice. I freeze. I suddenly don't know why I called anymore. When I remember, I realize I'm not sure if I even want to know anymore. Am I that stuck in the past? Can I bring myself to...?

"Hello?" I suppose I should say something.

"Hello." Good start, Jack. "Is Sam there, please?"

"Sam?" The voice says. "I'm sorry; I think you have the wrong number."

I release the breath I didn't know I was holding. For a second there, I had thought he was calling 'Sam' to the telephone. He can't even begin to imagine my relief as "Oh. Sorry about that – bye" stumbles out of my mouth. My thumb darts to the 'end' key. My limbs go floppy. No matter what I'd been telling myself, hearing what I'd been expecting would have been too much to bear.

I heave a sigh, throwing the phone onto my bed. I pick up the photograph that is lying there. She's smiling. I don't know if she'd known I took the photo, but if she did she hadn't minded. I can hardly remember what we'd been doing when I took it, but for a moment I felt a twinge of guilt. How could I left such happy memories in my sock draw to rot?

I wonder if she's changed. I wonder if I've changed over all this time.

As if she can actually see me, I smile back through the glossy exterior at her. Then, as my courage returns to its tiny ball in my heart, I turn to my sock draw again and rebury it.


	2. Sam

I haven't spoken to him in years. I rest my head on my hand as I sit on the couch, a feeling of indescribable guilt rising quickly. I haven't even thought about him in ages. Not even a quick stray from concentrating on my own selfish life to wonder if he was doing okay. I wouldn't even be thinking about him now, if I hadn't received the prompt that was now flickering in front of my eyes.

The last time I saw him, I can't remember what he was wearing, or where we were. I can't remember if it was over the phone or in person. I can't remember if it was because our lines of work overlapped, or just because we could. But I do remember our last words to each other.

"We'll keep in touch."

I find that now these words are void of any promise. They float hollowly in my mind. In theory, they mean so much and yet in practice, they seem to mean only a fragment of the intent that we had so honestly put behind them.

We hadn't parted in bad spirits – there were no arguments or disagreements, or differing in opinions or any of the sort. We just left,_ meaning_ to do as we had said, but neither of us getting around to actually carrying it out. Before I knew it, days had faded into weeks, and the weeks had slipped into months, and the months had seamlessly converged into years.

It's ironic, really. The Goa'uld, after our long and bloody eight year battle with them, were defeated. So much had happened in that time. There was the good stuff – many had gained knowledge of the universe, friends, experiences and memories to last them a lifetime – and the bad stuff – everybody involved had lost family, friends and innocence.

But for the most part, I certainly believe that the good stuff outweighed the bad stuff.

It's been so long – 'Years' seems like forever. Maybe if I see him again, he'll just be a face and a name, and I'll remember nothing of who he was before, or who he could be now. I know that I sure as hell haven't changed.

I pull myself out of my thoughts to remind myself how I got onto this topic. Ah yes. I had sat down to watch an old episode of _The X-Files_ that I had taped a while ago. Late for work that morning, and still needing to properly organize my things for the day, I had pulled the first tape that leaped to my fingers out of the cupboard, shoved it in the recorder and set the timer before going about my usual daily business. It had been a good episode.

And then the spooky closing theme had faded away, bringing through the footage that had been beneath that recording, and I found myself watching...huh? _The Simpsons?_ Since when had that been there? I cast my mind back, trying to remember taping it. I don't. I laugh and shake my head, reaching for the remote to turn it off. My arm slows on the way there. I sit, transfixed to the yellow figures moving about on the screen – I can't bring myself to draw my eyes away. The characters are rattling off lines that seem distantly familiar.

And for the time in years, I miss him. I miss him really bad.

I find his number (or, at least, the last one I had) and call it. It's engaged. I put the phone down again. There goes that idea. I'm sitting on the edge of my seat, a slight amount of adrenaline running through my system. No. I'm going to forget about it.

..Yes. I'm going to forget about it.

Just give us a sec. I'm forgetting already.

"Oh, for crying out loud." I cite these words along with Moe, unintentionally. I can't stand it. I have to do something.

* * *


	3. 2517 Miles

I am now standing about one metre from my sock drawer.

That's how much I've moved on. Not very much at all. And it seems it won't be increasing, at least, not any time in the near future. Just the thought of moving on makes me feel guilty, like something's chewing up my insides. That's actually quite ironic, since I seemed to move on in the years I was busy forgetting about her.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Confused, I glance at the clock on the wall. Who on Earth would be here at this hour of the night?

I am a little light-headed with hope as I pull open the door. For a split second Samantha Carter is standing on my doorstep holding a package. And then I blink.

"General O'Neill, the President needs your signature on this by Monday." The blonde runner from the Pentagon gives me a sealed package. I get a good look at her before she hopefully goes home for the weekend – nobody deserves to be working this late on a Friday. I throw a "have a nice weekend" out just before I close the front door and she leaves.

Silently, I turn to dump the package on the cabinet thing lining the hall. I really don't like the idea of reading what feels like a chunky package right now. My heart is beating quickly. I had thought it was her. This is a statement which is a personal code for "some small, imaginative part of my mind had hoped she'd be standing there". I doubt she would have come 2517miles across the continent to see little old me. But I mean, it wouldn't have been the first time she'd have showed up unannounced.

She'd come to see me like that twice before. First, that time when I'd had the knowledge of the Ancients downloaded into my brain for the second time.

"_I was out driving...in my car...and, uh, I drove here..."_

Second, just before she got the call about her father.

"_Look, I-I'm sorry to bother you at home like this, but I...um..."_

I'd forgotten about both of these until it was if they never existed. Until today, I suppose I'd had those memories filed under 'awkward moments that are overwrite worthy'. Before now they didn't seem to mean as much as they did in reality. Maybe they were something I took for granted once too many times.

They had been honest depictions of who she was.

I hadn't seen this at the time, but she had had the integrity and the courage to suck up any misgivings or fear that she might have had to come and tell me how she felt, even if she never actually got a chance to say it. Even though I was her CO, and it was technically untoward. Even though she was due to marry another man.

"_I've been sitting in your driveway for the last ten minutes trying to work up the nerve to come and talk to you...The truth is, I've been trying to work up the nerve for a lot longer than that."_

I didn't tell her at the time, but I'd been in a similar position. But unlike her, despite having less to lose, I never found the willpower to bring myself to do it, or to even try as she had done.

Another wave of guilt rushes towards me, but this time I'm ready. I dart back over to my sock drawer. But I don't dig up the picture. I pull out what I had originally intended to retrieve from there – a pair of socks. After pulling on them and a pair of shoes, I grab my wallet and keys and I hurtle out the front door.


	4. Five Minutes

Erm...I'd just like to say thanks for all the reviews :D Much appreciated.

This chapter's a bit slow, but the next one's the last one and it should be a bit better. I just needed to get them in the same side of the country at least and I've always been a fan of a bit of continuity. ;)

* * *

I've always enjoyed flying – it's probably a good thing, seeing as I joined the Air Force and all. But sitting on this plane on its way to Washington DC at around midnight, I'd rather be anywhere but here. Feeling solid ground beneath my feet has never before sounded so appealing. But, as I well know, it's kinda hard to do anything about that when you're at 5000 feet and climbing.

It's going to be an agonizingly long flight. There's going to be plenty of time for me to dwell in the past, change my mind a couple of times, and regret every decision I've made, every thought I've thought and every feeling I've felt for the last few years. Don't be fooled. It's not nearly as fun as it sounds.

I stare out the window, watching the lights below as they shrink into oblivion.

_Just like it was with me and him,_ I think bitterly, biting my lip. Suddenly, I open my eyes wide and shake my head. Did I really just think that? Me? Samantha Carter? What the hey? I can't believe myself sometimes. Here I am, all worried about if I'm going to know him anymore and if he's going to be the same person, and I can barely recognize myself after all these years. Am I really still the same or have I changed somewhere along the way? I can't even remember anymore.

I haven't been breathing. Wow. I must remember to do that. I believe it's actually quite important. I make a point of taking several long, deep breaths to try to calm the heart racing in my chest. The air hostess standing in the aisle has to tap me on the shoulder before I notice her presence there.

"Do you need a glass of water?" she asks. I shake my head, having a feeling I still look pretty bad. Regardless, she smiles politely in acknowledgement. "Don't like flying?" she presses in a conversational tone.

I'm not quite sure how to answer for a second there, and then I figure it can't do me any harm to give the truth, even if it does end up coming out slightly more vague than would be considered 'truthful'. "I like flying, I don't like where I'm going." Untrue. I know exactly why I don't wanna be on this flight, and it isn't because I'm going to Washington. I grew up in DC and spent more than a few of my post-graduate years there working with the Stargate. I'd like to think I'm sufficiently comfortable with Washington itself. "It's been a while."

I'm sure she doesn't know exactly what I mean by the look she gives me, but she smiles again and doesn't ask any questions. As she tells me to give her a yell if I need anything, she returns to pushing her drink cart up the sleepy plane. I lie back, feeling calmer and thanking everything reasonable and sane in the world that I didn't have to elaborate.

Hm. Elaborate...these colours dancing in front of my eyes every time I close them are fairly elaborate...maybe I'll just keep them shut for a while longer.

No. Don't sleep. I don't want to sleep. I yawn, although I hardly notice, let alone care...

Maybe just five minutes.

"Ma'am? Excuse me, Ma'am?" Aw, man. Can't I just have five minutes sleep?

"We're going to be arriving in Washington in a few minutes; I need you to buckle your seatbelt."

I nod and do as she asks, inwardly amused at myself. 'Five minutes'. Yeah, right.

The plane begins it decent. I take a moment to make sure I breathe. I can't believe I'm going to do this.


	5. Sir

I pull up at the airport in DC after paying for a couple of days parking. I jump out of my truck with gusto.

Then I remember. Ah crap. My laptop. I guess I forgot to take it inside when I got home this afternoon. I stare at it for a moment, deciding what to do with it. Should I leave it? Should I take it? I don't know. Every second I stand there is an unnecessary second wasted, and I jerk back and forth in a jumble of indecisiveness. There's a reasonable amount of sensitive stuff on this computer thing. I suppose there's a possibility it could get stolen in the day or so I'll be in Nevada taking care of...stuff.

I quickly come to rest at a course of action. It comes.

I grab the black bag out of the passenger seat and sling it over my shoulder. I stride with a single minded purpose towards the terminal, earning myself several thoughts from an unimpressed driver who considered himself above stopping at zebra crossings and a stare from a sleepy traveler waiting for a cab. I ignore both, maintaining my course and speed.

I dig my wallet out of my pocket as I reach the desk, asking a ticket on the first flight to Nevada before the woman there can exchange any of the usual conversational chit-chat.

"Certainly, sir." At this hour of the night, she doesn't have the effort to try and be too friendly. She uses my credit card and then returns it to me along with my ticket. I turn to leave, but she pulls me up.

"Sir, is that a laptop?" she wants to know. I look down at it.

"Uh, yeah," I say, staring at it as if it's about to explode.

"Is it a Dell?"

I look at it again. It's in a bag with 'DELL' written on it in big letters. "Uh, yeah," I repeat, musing in sarcasm at how funny it was that she guessed it was a Dell.

She looks at me sympathetically. "I'm afraid you're not allowed to take that as hand luggage," she informs me.

"Why?"

"The CEO of that airline does not want any Dell laptops, regardless of whether or not they've had a battery recall, allowed on with hand luggage. You're going to have to check it."

Right. That whole thing where laptop batteries were exploding. I consider giving her a piece of my mind on the subject of 'time wasting' and where I feel I need to be at this current moment. But then I realize that doing so would only occupy more time. I hand over the laptop. When next I speak, my voice is more or less void of all sincerity. "Thanks."

"I don't make the rules, sir," she calls as I go to find my gate.

"That'd better be fully intact by the time I get there!" I announce over my shoulder.

Great. My flight leaves in ten minutes. If I miss it because of that deal with the computer, I will not be happy...well, actually, I suppose I'll just go home and have that beer that I was going to have before I got caught up in myself, but hey! I'm here now, aren't I?

The gate my plane leaves from just had to be the one right down the end of the airport, didn't it? Of course it did. And, just to add to my good luck, a plane from somewhere or other just got in, so there's a whole bunch of people coming right at me.

I check my watch. Five minutes. I quicken my pace to a jog. This is gonna be close.

And then I suddenly notice something. My pace slows; my brain is playing tricks on me again.

I suppose.

It has to be.

I shake my head and laugh inwardly. Now I'm thinking that every blonde woman who walks past is Samantha Carter. Take, for instance, that lady over there coming off the plane. The blonde-haired, blue eyed, five-foot-nine-ish woman in track pants and joggers. This is a good example of 'if I didn't know better, I'd say it was her'.

But I _do_ know better. I keep thinking that every woman with blonde hair is her, just like that runner from the Pentagon that showed up to give me that envelope.

Even so, I keep my eye on her and we're getting nearer. I don't want to appear rude by staring, so I just glimpse at her every...half second or so maybe? She just reminds me of her so much...

The woman and I are within about ten metres of each other now. I make a point to stare straight ahead and not at her during this time: I know she's not who I think she is, so why should I keep fooling myself? I should keep focused on what I came here to do, which was to catch my flight that leaves any second now.

Despite my efforts, I can't help it. A peripheral fleeting glance slips in her direction. The woman seems to be in a hurry and doesn't notice, possibly more set in what she's doing more than I am...whatever that is. I return to my efforts in ignoring her.

Although, perhaps a bit too much. Within a few steps, our preoccupied paths cross and our shoulders collide.

"Sorry sir," she says vacantly as she brushes me off.

"Think nothing of it," I reply lightly as I return the favour, quickly forgetting previous thoughts and making my way past her.

I take a few more steps away before I can comprehend what happened.

Sir...


	6. Fear

n.n; Thanks so much for the reviews! They're much appreciated.

I'd also like to apologize for the obligatory airport cliche I'm using.

The next chapter should be up in a couple of days, since I am now completely assignment free! :D

* * *

I make a point to step evenly over the deep blue carpet at the airport. I stop, bite my lip and take a quick look around, searching for any place that might have a phone book I could use. I spy one and continue, hefting my wallet nervously in my right hand. The tips of my fingers have gone cold from fear and I feel a solid sort of dread wash up to my face. It's the sort of fear that one inflicts upon oneself; the sort of fear that doesn't come with the wind of a wild-goose chase blowing in your face or the threat of losing more than some personal dignity.

This sort of fear is the irrational kind, the one where nothing life threatening is gained nor lost, but involves surrendering a part of myself that rips me open and practically begs to be abused or mocked. It's the communication of something deeper than a "have you seen any good movies lately?" and the placing of trust in somebody I haven't seen in years to just listen to whatever I might say regardless of how mangled and messed up it might come out. It's the proverbial monster under the bed, which is feared until the courage is taken to look for it.

At that point, of course, it's found that its presence wasn't nearly as real as the fear it instilled was. I just hope when the time comes to look under the bed, the courage doesn't desert me and I go running in the opposite direction.

I clench and unclench my fingers a couple of times, examining my shoes and the floor whizzing past me as I make my way to the counter with a phone book. I feel like I could smash something – anything to get rid of this _feeling_ that's torturously hovering just within my personal space. I may as well be walking around with a bowling ball suspended by a horsehair above my head...a horsehair that could break at any...

_Oof!_

I feel an impact on my shoulder. I'm drawn out of my tangent thoughts just long enough to look up at the man I ran into and apologize.

"Sorry, sir," I say to the figure.

"Think nothing of it," he sings back to me, apparently not minding.

I smile to myself as I walk away. I wonder if it's ironic that General O'Neill, a colonel then, had said the exact same thing to me when...

My heart shudders to an abrupt stop, and I feel my brain screech to a halt in attempt to match the face of recognition to the database of memory. Numbly, I turn around to see the man striding towards the gate just past the one I'd come from, my eyes glazing over and temples throbbing in time to his footsteps.


	7. Food

He continues walking, considering disregarding the woman. Nevertheless, his mind still tries to mould itself around what he has just heard in attempted comprehension. Her voice is echoing, fanning even the smallest of sparks that remind him of her. But he knows his flight is on the final call for all passengers.

He finds with each step, he falters a little, eventually faltering to the point where he is completely stationary. He turns to look in her direction, and yet still does not feel compelled to start in either direction. She has turned and is staring back at him, the same confusion seen on her face as he feels on his own.

He blinks rapidly. This person he is seeing isn't wavering and isn't turning hazy. It is neither fading into oblivion nor morphing into somebody else before his eyes. He starts to think maybe...? Maybe it's possible? He holds her gaze steadily. In that, he becomes sure.

She is Samantha Carter.

As he turns and their eyes meet, she slowly begins to numbly double back. She can feel her own uncertainness in the slight weakness of her knees as she moves closer and closer to him. He doesn't approach her, but he also doesn't turn to walk away. By the look on his face, it appears that she is more inclined to believe her eyes than he is. Due to the ounce of disbelief that is still embedded within and the considerable amount of her that doesn't want to get her hopes up too high, she allows her brow to furrow just slightly and the logical portion of her mind to voice its concerns.

It screams at her about the probability and the odds that they'd be in the same place at the same time with the same purpose, in a universe of infinite choices.

But by the time the two of them are standing toe to toe, that frown is long gone and has been replaced with a smile that subtly pokes itself at her features.

He, without a doubt, is Jack O'Neill.

They stand square to each other, perfectly still, just watching each other for a couple of moments. Unconsciously, she raises a hand to her head and tries to give some manner of discipline to her hair, an endeavor which she soon finds to be futile. After forty three minutes of _X-Files_ watching and a good couple of hours of flight, it is thoroughly and stubbornly multidirectional. Similarly, he pats his stomach: having a desk job and a sizeable amount of cake over several years has given him an extra pound or two.

"Sir," she says finally.

"Carter," he responds.

"What are you doing here?" she wants to know.

"I live here." He voices the first thing that comes to mind.

She looks around nervously, just to make she is where she thinks she is. "In the airport?"

"Uh, no. Not in the airport." He tries to come up with a casual explanation for his presence. None is forthcoming, so he alters the subject. "What brings you to Washington DC on this fine day?" He gestures to the wide windows of the airport that openly display the starry night sky of the early morning outside – and only then realizing it isn't exactly 'day' yet.

It's her turn to become flustered. She looks down at her joggers. "Well, I was, uh, watching TV and um... I-I was actually on my way to see you because I thought, um...I don't know..." She grimaces, wondering if he can understand anything she's trying to say. She smoothly turns the spotlight on him. "So, where are you going?" She gestures at the gate he was headed to.

He looks down at the floor, still making gestures with his hands: he'd been hoping she wouldn't ask. "Funny you should ask that, actually," he says in true Jack O'Neill style: with a degree of certainness, but still with an edge to his voice that conveyed a measure of amusing happenstance. "I tried to call you, but I got a wrong number and I thought since we hadn't...you know, seen each other in a while we could..." He trails off, trying to use flourishy gestures to compensate for what he had wanted to say.

She frowns again. "You were coming to see me?" His head bobs indecisively, finally evolving into a nod.

"Oh."

Awkward silence.

They feel uncomfortable standing in each other's presence; there's unsaid words hanging between them. It falls down to one of them to push them away.

He stares at her unashamedly. He suspects its making her a little self-conscious – she's trying to flatten her hair and disguise the fact she's wearing trackies and a t-shirt – but he's so preoccupied that he doesn't see either of these things. He has forgotten his initial reasons for being here and is content where he is. His plane is prepping to take off and he doesn't even notice. A smile creeps onto his face and he remains oblivious to it. He buries his hands in his pockets and keeps his eyes trained on hers.

This doesn't help her come out with what she wants to say, and yet somehow she is calmer than she was half an hour ago. "The point of my coming here was to..."

She is cut off and sent into a semiconscious state of complete and utter shock. He has leant forward and pressed his lips to hers, pulling her in tightly. He feels her reciprocate, taking hold of his middle, possibly to ensure she remain standing in the event the current situation becomes too cliqued for her knees to handle.

Just like that, the last few years seem to fill themselves in. They manage to make it feel like nothing had changed; like they had not steadily grown apart; like they had not made their friendship inversely proportional to distance between them.

They break apart. She breathes heavily, breathless and a little embarrassed. People walking past them are displaying mixed reactions, commonly "eugh", "okaaay" and a resounding "aww!" from a small bypassing group of tourists.

Retaining the distance (or lack thereof) between them, she clears her throat. "What plane were you supposed to be catching?" she asks.

He looks out the window in time to see his flight lift off. "Oh. Urm...That one," he points out to her. She giggles. He glares mockingly at her and follows suit.

"Aha," she apologizes. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, pshaw." He tentatively puts his arm around her waist so they can walk side by side. They begin down the airport. "Well...I know this place that sells food."

She pulls his arm tighter around her and raises her eyebrows. "Food, you say?"

"Food! Even at this hour, too!"

"I could do with...food," she says. He sighs. "What?"

He looks down at her. "As much as I don't mind eating food – with you, no less..." he pauses for a second. "You _do_ realize that I just sent my laptop on a trip to Nevada, don't you?"

She meets his gaze straight-faced for a second. He nods. She laughs and rests her head on his shoulder as they go to get food.

* * *

And that's it!

I suffered major internal debate as to whether or not they should kiss. In the end, I was just like "What the hell. Make 'em kiss, for the love of God!" n.n;

Anyway, thanks to everybody who read and/or reviewed and have a really nice day! :D


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